


Something's Gotta Stop the Free Fall

by owlways_and_forever



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-04-07 08:00:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4255626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlways_and_forever/pseuds/owlways_and_forever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been done before, and it'll be done again, but here's my take on what happens after the Battle of Hogwarts. Just give it a chance. No rights to characters, etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Happiness would come, Harry thought, but at the moment it was muffled by exhaustion, and the pain of losing Fred and Lupin and Tonks pierced him like a physical wound every few steps. Most of all he felt the most stupendous relief, and a longing to sleep…he turned away from the painted portraits, thinking now only of the four-poster bed lying waiting for him in Gryffindor Tower, and wondering whether Kreacher might bring him a sandwich there, “I’ve had enough trouble for a lifetime.”_   


 

Leaving Dumbledore’s office, Harry, Ron and Hermione set off toward Gryffindor tower, walking slowly, feet shuffling, often having to redirect themselves down a back passage to avoid debris or broken staircases. Eventually, they reached the common room, where they found a crowd of people, mostly asleep though some were lying with their eyes open, lost in thought, occupying just about every surface possible, and Harry wondered if they would find the dormitory full as well. He thought wistfully of his four-poster before climbing the stairs to find out for himself whether or not the bed was indeed empty, Ron saying a quick goodnight to Hermione before following him up the spiral staircase. He was pleased to find that someone seemed to have the sense to leave their beds open, though the other three were all occupied. Harry didn’t even bother shedding his grimy clothes as he fell onto the bed, wriggling to get the blanket pulled over him, and almost immediately dozing off. He vaguely registered hearing footsteps a few moments later and Hermione’s voice talking to Ron, asking if she could sleep in here because all the beds in her dormitory were taken, before his brain completely gave in and he fell fast asleep.

Harry woke to darkness and an empty dormitory, feeling rested, but still tired, like he would need to sleep again in half an hour. He surveyed the room, taking in the damage for the first time – there was dust everywhere, one of the windows blasted out by a curse, leaving a hole slightly larger than the original gap, and the occasional piece of stone was scattered across the floor, but on the whole, the dormitory looked no worse for wear.

There are things that need to be attended to, things Harry must do, people he must talk to, but right now, his muscles sore and his body fatigued, 8 months of dirt and grime built up from their stint in hiding (even if he did use a cleansing charm, its not the same), all Harry can think of is taking a hot bath. So he makes his way into the adjacent bathroom, turning the faucet on and checking the temperature with his toes before sinking into the water, groaning with satisfaction. Even after only seconds, he feels like he is being healed, the water soothing all the parts of him that hurt. All the physical parts, at least.

The only thing it isn’t helping is his mind, which is still buzzing with a thousand different thoughts. He’s relieved, beyond relieved, that it’s all over, Voldemort is gone, the battle is won. The great weight that’s been hanging over his shoulders his entire life is lifted, and he doesn’t have to keep looking over his shoulder every second the way he has for the last few months (though admittedly, it’ll probably take a few months to break that habit). But he hates himself for feeling this way. He’s just lost friends – Fred, Lupin, Tonks, Lavender, Colin Creevey, who knows how many others? – he should feel sad. And he does, but mostly he feels relief. Shouldn’t he feel sadness first? Why doesn’t he? Is there something wrong with him? He can’t bring himself to face the Weasleys until he knows why he doesn’t feel worse. He feels responsible, he _is_ responsible, but still, relief flows over him. He wants someone to talk to, and yet, at the same time he doesn’t want anyone to know this about him. _Let them think I’m grieving just as much as they are_ , he tells himself. _Maybe if I pretend long enough, it’ll happen._

He’s shaken out of his reverie when the door to the bathroom slams open, revealing Ginny, looking anywhere but at Harry. At first he thinks she’s trying to respect his privacy, but since when had Ginny been shy about that? When he sees her fold her arms across her chest and notes the clench of her jaw, the hardness in her eyes, he knows she’s angry, furious even, and he feels his stomach twist.

“Mum wants to know where you are,” Ginny says, still not looking at him. “She’s worried about you. She’s been through enough.”

She flashes him a quick look that tells him to get his ass down to the Great Hall before she kicks it. He nods, and she turns to leave, slamming the door again behind her. Harry sinks low in the water, blowing bubbles out through his nose as he lets all the air in his lungs out, and he rakes a hand over his face and through his hair. _Shit._

* * *

 

 _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows,_ pp 598, 600


	2. Chapter 2

In the Great Hall, the Weasleys sit, clustered together, at the former Gryffindor table, though the banners have been abandoned, scorch marks burned into the wood and they all try desperately to avoid touching them, because that would make it more real somehow. They sit, in the wreckage of the previous day’s battle, in the wreckage of a _war_ , and they pretend it’s nothing more than an end of term banquet, a family dinner, anything other than what it really is. They sit in silence, no one talking, no one looking at each other. Hermione wishes she knew how to comfort them, any of them, especially Ron, but she doesn’t, so she just sits, feeling very out of place.

Mrs. Weasley wrings her hands nonstop, anxiety and grief wrenching at her heart, and after a while, Ginny must get sick of it, because she stands and storms off, long, fiery hair swinging dangerously in a ponytail behind her. Hermione squeezes Ron’s hand under the table, hoping to impart some kind of reassurance or support to him, but he doesn’t respond, just continues pushing food around his plate.

She’s not sure how to feel – of course she’s sad that Fred is gone, and she misses him, absolutely, but… well, she’d never been particularly close to the twins, not, not that that makes her any less sad, just… She supposes she’s just more relieved that the war is over, Voldemort is gone, the world is safe again. And most of them survived. It’s terrible that some didn’t but… She stops herself, not wanting to even go there. If the others new how she really felt, they would hate her, she hates herself a little bit. It’s just, she hadn’t expected everyone to survive, she had known some would die, and if she were being perfectly honest, she had thought one of them wouldn’t make it, if not two or all three. So she was a little bit relieved that it was all over, more than a little bit. She would never tell them.

Ginny returns not long after she leaves, sinking back into her seat and resuming her silent vigil next to her mother. The two women look oddly similar – they don’t actually look much alike, Ginny’s nose is longer and her eyes are a different color, her face just shaped much more like her father’s, but the expressions they wear, god they’re exactly the same. Harry troops down five minutes after, and Hermione realizes then why Ginny left. Mrs. Weasley was anxious about Harry, of course. It makes sense. Harry scans the table, hesitates next to Ginny, taking in the way her posture stiffens as he draws near, and continues down the table, eventually dropping down next to Hermione.

For an hour, they try to offer each other smiles, reassuring, kind, warm, supportive, but no one seems to be able to muster up anything more than superficial positivity, understandably. No one really eats, they take a few bites here and there, but mostly, the food in front of them is ignored. They’re all just waiting.

“Please, excuse me,” Professor McGonagall announces, standing up at the front of the Hall. “Though this is a difficult time for all, there are things that must be addressed. First of all, I would like to thank each and every one of you for what you have done. Know that if it weren’t for you, last night’s accomplishment would never have happened. We now live in a world free from Lord Voldemort, and that is something to be celebrated. There is much to be grateful for. But the celebrations will have to wait. The castle needs to be rebuilt, preferably _before_ students arrive on September 1 st.” Gasps echo around the Great Hall as the implication of the statement is understood, and Hermione breathes a sigh of relief. _Hogwarts will reopen as always, thank goodness_. “Anyone who wishes to volunteer for this task will please contact me directly. Many of us are suffering losses at the moment – colleagues, friends, family. No matter how honorable the cause, these losses are never easy for those who are left behind. For those who wish to speak to someone, you may contact Madam Pomfrey for more information. Any discussion, including an expression of interest, will be held in strictest confidence. Lastly, the families of the fallen may make arrangements for funerals on their own, or they may choose to be a part of a memorial service held by the school in two weeks time. Please let Professor Sprout know by tomorrow afternoon what you would like to do, so that we may plan accordingly. You are all welcome to remain at Hogwarts as long as you would like, but we are also connecting the fireplaces in each house common room to the Floo network. It should be up and running by 2 ‘o clock this afternoon. Thank you.”

Though there is no applause, it is as though the room lets out a collective sigh of relief. They’ve been addressed, they have something to do, something to think about, decisions to make again. It’s like everyone was just waiting for a purpose once more. The thought hits Hermione suddenly, and she’s surprised it hadn’t occurred to her earlier. _What will we do now?_ It seems like she, Harry, and Ron have been fighting this war for seven years, and now, suddenly, it’s over. What now? She reaches out to both of them and squeezes their hands to ground her as the world spins. _What do we do now?_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taking a while to update this story. Believe it or not, I know exactly where this is going, I'm just having trouble getting the writing done. I seem to have gotten into a rhythm though, so hopefully I'll be able to crank out a few chapters of this and/or other stories.

None of them wished to stay any longer, and they’d decided to have Fred buried as a part of the memorial service, since they couldn’t think of a better way to honor him (they had never thought about having to bury a child, a sibling, so how could they possibly plan a funeral for one? No, far better to let the school handle it).

“Harry, Hermione, you’ll over course come back to the Burrow with us, dears,” Molly said with a watery smile, back in the Gryffindor common room as they gathered their meager belongings around the fire place.

“Actually, I think I’ll stay here, or –“ Harry started, wanting to be anywhere but in a house full of grieving Weasleys, especially when it was his fault they were mourning their son, their brother, but Mrs. Weasley interrupted.

“Harry James Potter, I have already lost one son to this war,” she stated sternly, her voice somewhere between yelling and crying, “and I will not lose another one. You will come back to the Burrow with the rest of us, and you will not shut yourself off from this family, have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry submitted after a moment, giving in to the intimidating matriarch.

No matter how many times they had told him that he is a part of their family (and no matter how many times he has felt that way in the past), Harry still felt as though he was intruding upon their grief, like he should give them their privacy to mourn, but he was powerless to defy Molly Weasley, so when the time came for them to depart, Harry gathered around the Gryffindor fireplace with the others. He didn’t miss the fact that Ginny stayed as far from him as possible, or that George didn’t even look at him. _They blame me_ , he thought to himself. _I blame myself too_.

George went first, desperate to be anywhere but the castle, the place that reminds him far too much of his twin. By the time Charlie followed him, Harry was sure that George had shut himself up in his room to avoid everyone and grieve alone. Bill and Fleur returned to Shell Cottage, though they assured Mrs. Weasley that they would be over for dinner. Arthur went next, kissing his wife quickly before he did, and he was followed by Percy, who seemed slightly uncomfortable in the wake of his reconciliation with his family. Ron and Hermione were next to leave, giving the others a brief wave, knowing they would see them in a matter of moments. Mrs. Weasley gave Harry a significant look, and he stepped into the fireplace under her watchful eye, took a pinch of the powder she offered, and declared, “The Burrow” his destination.

The familiar, and very unwelcome, spinning sensation gripped Harry, and he closed his eyes until he felt his feet hit the brick, knees buckling slightly at the impact. He dusted himself off, stepping out onto the carpet just in time to avoid Ginny as she came spinning into the fireplace. She flashed him a quick glare, then stormed off to the kitchen, and Harry looked round at his two best friends, hoping they could offer some explanation, but Ron just shrugged and Hermione offered him a weak smile. With a heavy sigh, Harry turned and found the stairs, climbing all the way to Ron’s room, wanting to be alone with his thoughts. He was surprised to find it exactly the same as they had left it – orange posters covering the walls, a mess of books and trinkets scattered around the floor, camp bed next to Ron’s for Harry and… and Hedwig’s cage. He hadn’t thought about it, completely forgotten it was there in fact, but now the sight of it, perched on top of Ron’s dresser, empty, sent him reeling. He sat on the end of his bed, head in his hands, as grief truly overcame him for the first time since the Battle.

The past few months – years, really – he had been so intent on stopping Voldemort, he hadn’t really taken time to grieve for anyone. Even Sirius… he had been moody and depressed afterward, for sure, but he had never really given himself the time to recover, to mourn, to heal. There had been too much to do, too many responsibilities. And then Dumbledore, and Mad-Eye, Hedwig, whoever had been lost during their time in hiding (he still wasn’t sure of much that had happened in the rest of the world while they were on the run), and everyone from the Battle. So many people. He felt tears streaming down his cheeks and for the first time in a very long time, Harry felt like he could not hold them in – he felt weak, completely unable to be strong, to hold everything in and ignore it.

Ron and Hermione came in about half an hour later to the sight of Harry curled up in the fetal position on his camp bed. Ron stood about awkwardly, not knowing how to comfort his friend, while Hermione crouched down next to him, brushing his hair back from his forehead tenderly.

“Is there anything we can do for you, Harry?” she asked in a whisper, still stroking his hair in a comforting gesture.

He couldn’t seem to manage any words, choked noises issuing forth from him instead, so he just shook his head. She smoothed his hair back once more before pulling his glasses off his face and setting them on the nightstand between his and Ron’s bed, and covered him with a throw blanket before she ushered Ron out of the room again. Within minutes, Harry fell asleep, worn out from crying and grief and months (years) of fighting.

~ ~ ~

Hermione opened the door to her and Ginny’s shared room a little more violently than she had intended, but she was tired and half the people in this house were acting like idiots, grief be damned.

“Everything okay?” Ginny asked, a touch of surprise coloring her voice, but she didn’t move from where she lay on her bed.

“Your brother,” Hermione replied testily, “is an absolute idiot.”

“Coulda told you that,” Ginny answered with the ghost of a smile.

“Harry’s really upset,” the older girl changed the subject quickly, watching carefully as Ginny stiffened in response, her whole body tensing.

“Who isn’t?” she remarked, seemingly offhand, but Hermione knew it revealed a lot more emotion that someone else might perceive.

“He really needs you, even just friendship,” Hermione offered, but Ginny ignored her words, rolling so she faced away from her friend. “What’s going on with you, why are you angry with him? I’m not… I’m not trying to make you change your mind, I just want to understand. Maybe I can help you.”

“Do you know how many nightmares I had of him dying while you were gone, Hermione?” the redhead’s voice floated over from the other bed, and the strangled tone told her that Ginny was crying. “Do you know how many nightmares since the Battle?” Hermione didn’t answer, not knowing what to say. “More than once a night,” Ginny said, answering her own question.


	4. Chapter 4

The funerals pass in a haze for Harry, just day after day of grief, speeches, crying, and bodies being lowered into the ground. To be quite honest, he can hardly remember details of any of them, they all just seem to blend together. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism, maybe it’s how his mind chooses to deal with the tragedy of it all.

It had been two weeks since the Battle, two weeks of being avoided and glared at and pitied, and Harry’s pretty damn sick of it. George scowls at him, Mrs. Weasley hardly looks at him, though she barely looks at any of them, Mr. Weasley pats him back far too often for comfort, and Ron gives him a speech every night before bed telling him that they’re all just grieving, it’ll get better, just give it time. Nobody hates him. But Harry knows that’s not true, because worst of all, worst of all is Ginny. She won’t even stay in the same room as him. Every time he shows up, she finds some excuse to leave, or just stalks out, not even giving a reason. She seemed to radiate anger all the time, and he had no idea how to respond to it or what to do to make things better.

After talking it over with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and assuring them that he would be back at least twice a week for dinner, Harry decided to leave the Burrow, at least for a little while. Everyone needed a little space so they could recover from the War in their own way, and Harry was no exception. He told Ron and Hermione first, who supported him, and told him they were planning to go retrieve her parents within the week anyway, and gradually everyone else seemed to know.

Hermione helped him perform an undetectable extension charm on his backpack, and he loaded his things inside. When he could think of nothing else to do there, he brought his bag downstairs to the sitting room. Ginny abruptly stood up from the couch and stormed into the kitchen, and Harry let out a heavy sigh. He had been hoping she could at least be civil enough for him to say goodbye, but apparently he was wrong. Mrs. Weasley stood up and enveloped him in a hug that expelled all the air from his lungs, and he patted her on the back, trying to reassure her somehow. Mr. Weasley shook his hand, as did Percy, Charlie and Bill. Fleur gave him a quick hug and told him he was welcome at Shell Cottage anytime, and George, with his red rimmed eyes, just nodded in hid direction, which Harry thought was a marked improvement. Ron gave him a brusque hug and they clapped each other on the back, but it lasted only a second before Hermione pulled him into her arms, her eyes wet with tears she was trying desperately to hold back.

With a final, “Be careful,” from Mrs. Weasley, Harry backed out of the sitting room, preferring to depart through the kitchen and back door. He was a little surprised, but pleased (well, maybe not pleased, exactly – anxious?) to find Ginny in the kitchen when he pushed the door open, and he started speaking before she could storm out on him again.

“I’m… I’m gonna go, Ginny, I just wanted to let you know. I think… I think you, all of you, need a little space from me right now, so I’m just gonna…” He trailed off, she was still facing away from him, but her head was turned ever so slightly toward him to indicate that she was listening. “If you want me to stay, all you have to do is say so… Just tell me not to go, and I won’t.”

She didn’t answer, didn’t move, didn’t do anything except turn her head away again, and Harry sighed, nodding to himself and pushing open the door to the Burrow, walking out with his head hanging. With his heart heavy, he thought determinedly of Number 12 Grimmauld Place and twisted, disappearing into thin air.

He never saw her shoulders shaking as she tried not to cry, never saw her turn and run up the stairs once she’s sure he’s gone, slamming her bedroom door and locking it so she can collapse without anyone disturbing her.

Ginny cried, not something she did very often, but everything inside her was so muddled and she just couldn’t seem to make sense of it. She hadn’t wanted him to leave, certainly hadn’t meant to make him think he ought to, but when he’d given her the chance, she couldn’t tell him to stay either. She felt that if she had, he might have expected things to change and she was still… she was so angry with him still, and she was not ready to forgive him and let things go back to being wonderful, as though nothing had happened, as though the past year had been nothing.

Harry landed on the doorstep of Number 12 Grimmauld Place feeling thoroughly downtrodden, swinging the door open with more melancholy than he had felt in days. His life seemed to be a mess to him – best friend’s brother dead because of him, his father’s last friend dead because of him, the whole wizarding world in tatters, and him, completely mad for a girl who was beyond furious with him.

So absorbed in his own thoughts was Harry that he nearly passed out with fright when the protective enchantments over the house kicked in, falling to his knees when Dumbledore’s ghostly specter appeared in front of him. When he regained his composure, Harry headed for the living room, where the plush couch called to him, and he sank into it. He briefly noted that the house appeared to have been ransacked by Death Eaters after Yaxley had gained entrance, and he made a note to call for Kreacher in the morning, but for the moment, he was alone with his thoughts.

He thought about Ginny, and where they stood now that the War was over. From the way she had looked at him when he’d shown up at the school, he had thought they might be able to pick up where they left of in his sixth year, but now… The problem was, he was just so crazy about her, and he couldn’t really imagine being with anyone else. What was he even doing thinking about romance? He scolded himself mentally. There were more important things to think about. And yet, try as he might, he could not get his thoughts of Ginny, and when he drifted off to sleep, he dreamed of her, tossing her long, fiery hair over a creamy pale shoulder…


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is kind of short and filler-y, but I just had to get through it so I could get to more interesting things. Hoping to have another update later in the week.

 “Are you really sure?” Ron asked Hermione as she continued throwing her freshly laundered clothes into the tiny beaded bag.

“Yes, Ronald,” she sighed, her tone revealing a snippet of irritation. “I don’t need your help.”

“I know, I know,” he replied, trying to pacify her. “I just – I’m going to miss you.”

Hermione looked up to see the tips of his ears turn red, and she smiled warmly, leaning forward to place a chaste kiss on his lips.

“I’m going to miss you too,” she said softly, almost a whisper. “But this is something I need to do on my own. Besides, you have your own family you need to take care of.”

Ron nodded glumly, thinking of George, who was taking Fred’s passing the hardest.

“And Harry,” Hermione added, turning back to her packing.

“Harry?” Ron asked, confused. “What’s wrong with Harry?”

“Didn’t you notice he hasn’t been alright?” she replied, and he shook his head in answer. “Honestly, Ron, do you notice anything besides food? I know you’re grieving for Fred, but I think sometimes you – all of you, us really – forget that Harry lost a lot too. Fred was his friend, but he also lost Lupin, who was his last connection to his parents, and to Sirius. And little Colin Creevey, and Hedwig, who was so precious to him. I’m not saying that one of you lost more than the other,” she pacified as Ron started to turn a little pink, “I’m just reminding you that Harry lost a lot too, and we all seem to forget that sometimes. And everyone who – he feels responsible.”

Ron opened his mouth to say something, but Hermione barreled on.

“Don’t say it’s silly, because it isn’t. We were all fighting for him, Ron, and you know it. Of course, we believed in the cause and all, but he was the one who brought us all together, and without him, who knows?”

“I didn’t –“ Ron started, but he was promptly cut off.

“And he’s been stuck here, and it’s hard for him, because George blames him almost as much as he blames himself, and Ginny won’t talk to him, and everyone else is trying to pretend like everything’s fine when it’s very obviously not.” She took a deep breath as she paused to let her words sink in.

“I had no idea… Why won’t Ginny talk to him?” Ron asked, looking confused.

“I’m not really sure, she doesn’t talk to me as much either anymore,” Hermione answered, sadness etched onto her face.

“It’s probably just how she’s dealing with Fred…”

“I don’t think so,” Hermione speculated, biting her lip. “I think… I think she’s really upset about us leaving, and the whole past year.”

“Why? It’s not like we could take her with us!” Ron said, his voice rising slightly as he bristled at the thought of it.

“No, I think she understands, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t hurt, and scared, and god knows what else.” She stopped throwing books into her bag for a moment, pausing to consider two on charms.

“So what do we do?” Ron asked, shifting uncomfortably. He often felt at a loss when it came to dealing with his little sister’s emotions.

“There’s nothing to do about Ginny, she just needs time. But you should go talk to Harry while I’m gone.”

“But –“

“He really needs it, Ron,” Hermione stated plainly, giving Ron a _don’t argue with me you won’t win_ look, and he just sighed heavily.

“What do I say?” he asked, and Hermione smiled slightly.

“Anything, argue with him if you like, tell him he’s being a prat,” she rolled her eyes as Ron grinned. “Just be honest with him, don’t pretend that nothing happened.”

“Right,” he replied, nodding. “Bloody hell, Hermione, what would I do without you?”

Ron pulled her into a tight embrace, peppering her jawline with kisses and making her giggle. Hermione returned his kisses with one of her own, which went from light fun to passionate rather quickly, and she had to push herself away with hands on his chest to steady herself. She had set rules for them, boundaries, and if she wasn’t careful she was going to cross them all before she was truly ready.

“Hermione…” Ron groaned, his hands searching for her waist to try to bring her close to him again.

“Shh…” she giggled again, taking another step away.

“I’m going to miss you,” he said, so quietly she almost couldn’t hear, his eyes trained on the floor as they often were when he admitted something personal.

“Me too,” she answered, reaching out to take his hand, “but I’ll only be gone a few days.”

“I know.” Hermione squeezed Ron’s hand lightly.

She didn’t want to leave like this, but it had already been weeks, and she had to find her parents. She hated that she hadn’t done it the minute the war was over, but there had been funerals and things to deal with in the wake of the battle. It was long past time to go return her parents’ memories to them, and deal with whatever consequences came from that particular action. No doubt they would be angry, distrusting, hurt, and who knows what else. Perhaps part of the reason she had delayed so long was that she didn’t want to face what was coming. But it was time. She grabbed her little beaded back and snapped it shut, clasping it tightly as she faced Ron.

“I have to go,” Hermione said simply, and he nodded, looking very downcast.

“Be safe,” Ron replied, and this time it was her turn to nod.

“See you soon,” she murmured, kissing his cheek quickly, and before either of them could change her mind, she turned on the spot, disapparating with a small _pop._


	6. Chapter 6

The door to Harry’s private room on the third floor of the Leaky Cauldron (adjacent to the one he had stayed in before their third year, when he had run away from the Dursleys) burst open and he was jolted awake from his nap by the noise. Blinking and bleary-eyed, Harry sat up on the bed, his hands reaching for his glasses on the nightstand.

“Wuzzgoinon?” he mumbled, his brain feeling very thick and fuzzy.

“Harry, what the bloody hell is going on here?” Ron voice pierced the veil of fog in Harry’s mind, and he looked toward the door, spotting hid tall, red-haired friend in the entrance.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, flopping back onto the bed as he ran his hands over his face, trying to wake himself up.

“Why aren’t you at Grimmauld Place?” Ron replied, as though the question were obvious.

“ I – I couldn’t…” Harry started, but his voice broke and he stopped, looking away and out toward the window.

“Right,” Ron said lamely, shuffling his feet awkwardly. “Mum’s been worried about you. Missed dinner yesterday.”

“What?” Harry replied, confused still. “Dinner?”

“Yeah, you said you would come for Sunday dinners, but you didn’t show up yesterday or owl or anything…” Ron let the sentence drift of as he looked at Harry with concern.

“Was yesterday Sunday already?” Harry asked, pulling his hands down his face again, surprised at how quickly the days had gone.

“Do you – do you now know what day it is?”

“Well, I –“ Harry started, trying to think of an excuse that was far from the truth. “You know how it is, mate, without school and Hermione doing our timetables, all the days kind of seem the same.”

Ron casts a dubious look around the small room, his blue eyes lingering slightly on the half-empty bottle of firewhisky on the dresser.

“Where is Hermione, anyway?” Harry asked, desperate for a change of subject.

“She went to Australia to find her parents. Left Friday.” Ron answers, looking thoroughly dejected.

“Oh,” Harry said simply. “I thought you were going with her?”

“I was going to,” Ron sighed heavily, “but she said she wanted to do it on her own.”

“Everything alright with you two then?” Harry asked, although at this point he felt like he was only pretending to care.

“Yeah, I guess,” Ron replied with a shrug. “I mean, nothing’s really different, but I guess that’s because there’s been so many other… changes.”

Harry knew he meant Fred, and everyone else, and he nodded, sympathetic.

“Look, mate, you shouldn’t have left,” Ron stated, and Harry was taken aback by the abrupt change of topic.

“I couldn’t stay,” Harry said simply, turning away from Ron to go stand by the window.

“I know you think everyone hates you, but they don’t. You can’t take George and Ginny as examples, they’re just…” he paused, trying to figure out how best to phrase things. “George hates the whole world right now, and Ginny… Bloody hell, Harry, Ginny’s an enigma to the entire damn world, myself included, but I know she doesn’t hate you.”

“I gave her a chance, Ron,” Harry tried to explain, his voice cracking again. “I told her I would stay at the Burrow if she wanted me to, all she had to do was say so, but she didn’t. She didn’t even look at me. I think that’s a pretty clear signal that she wanted me to go.”

“She was pretty upset afterward…” Ron murmured, and Harry slammed his fist against the wood of the window frame.

“I don’t know what she wants from me,” Harry snarled angrily.

“I’m not sure she knows, mate,” Ron answered with a hesitant smile.

“Then what am I supposed to do?” he asked, leaning his head on the cool glass of the window.

“Beats me, but running away isn’t the answer,” Ron stated with a wry smile. “Didn’t you learn that from me last year?”

Harry turned to face him, pain written all over both their faces. It had been a difficult time for both of them when Ron walked out, and they had been avoiding mentioning the incident since he had returned to them.

“Look, I just wanted to make sure you were…”

“Alive,” Harry finished for him, and Ron nodded.

“Anyway, Mum expects you at dinner this week, so try not to lose track of the days,” Ron said at last, turning to the door. “You could come over before Sunday too, you know. You’re always welcome there.”

“Thanks,” Harry answered, turning back to the window, and Ron left, closing the door gently behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short, but I know it's been a long time since I updated this one, so I wanted to give you guys something. I'm still on a bit of a semi-hiatus as I try to deal with some things in my personal life, but I am definitely continuing with this story, there just might be slightly longer intervals between updates for a bit, so I'm sorry about that. But thank you all in advance for your patience, and I hope you enjoy this part.

Saturday rolls around and Harry eyes himself in the mirror, dismayed by the prospect of trying to make himself look presentable for dinner the next evening. He knows Mrs. Weasley will fuss over him either way, but it’ll be so much worse for her if he looks the way he currently does, and she has enough problems as it is.

The face that stares back at him from the mirror is one he hardly recognizes. The scar on his forehead is different somehow – thinner and paler than before, less noticeable. His hair had been growing out for weeks now and fell long and shaggy around his ears, still as unkempt as ever, but where it had once been jet black, it was now a touch lighter, a warm chocolate brown instead. Perhaps it was just his imagination, but he seems to have freckles now where he had never noticed any before.

Harry rubs his hand over his cheek, wincing at the rough stubble that raked the palm of his hand.

 _Who is this man?_ he thinks to himself. _This cannot be me._

He picks up the bottle of firewhiskey and takes a deep swig, relishing the burn slipping down the back of his throat. How had he changed so much? And why is he so bothered by it? After all, it’s only appearances. But what if the appearances are only the reflection of something on the inside – an indication that he is no longer the person that he used to be? Harry takes another pull from the bottle to try to silence the thoughts, but words come back to him, unbidden, words that have haunted him for years.

“Strange likenesses…” Tom had told him. “We even look something alike.”

It’s an odd thought, the idea that the horcrux inside of him could have had an impact on the way he looked, almost like it had been fighting for dominance over his body. If that were true though, shouldn’t he feel relieved, instead of scared? If this is truly him, he ought to feel good about being rid of Voldemort’s taint. Only what if he doesn’t like his new self? He had grown rather accustomed to himself in the past eighteen years, and he does not much like the idea that he had been duped. Harry takes another sip and sighs, his head starting to feel fuzzy, his thoughts blurring together.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry this has taken so long - I had the beginning and ends of the chapter written, but I just couldn't get the middle to link them together. Anyway, thank you for your patience. I know that I switch into the past tense in this chapter, but it's more natural for me to write that way. When I have more time, I'll go back and edit the previous chapters to match, but right now I am completely loaded up with work. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter!

Harry fussed with the collar of his shirt once more before raising his fist to knock lightly on the front door of the Burrow. He could hear bustling about inside and within seconds, Mrs. Weasley was throwing the door wide open.

“Harry, dear,” she gasped, looking startled. “You don’t have to knock! You can always come straight in, Harry, surely you know that.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry mumbled, and she pulled him in close for a quick bone-crushing hug.

She pretended not to notice the faint smell of firewhiskey that clung to him, despite his best efforts in the shower, and Harry was immensely grateful for it, not wanting to explain to her in the least what had been going on inside his mind of late.

“Supper’s nearly ready dear,” she told him, bustling back into the kitchen. “I figured we would eat out in the garden tonight, since it’s such a nice evening.”

“I’ll just, er, go help set the table then,” Harry offered, feeling incredibly awkward just standing around.

“Harry!” Hermione squealed with delight the moment he stuck his head out the back door, and before he knew it she had flung her arms around his neck, enveloping him in a tight hug.

“Hey, ‘Mione,” he said, voice muffled in her bushy hair. “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t meant to be back for ages yet.”

“Oh, I, well,” she stammered, pulling away from him. “I got back yesterday with Mum and Dad, but they said, well, they said they needed some time to think things though.”

Ron walked over to them and placed his hand on Hermione’s back, rubbing soothingly as she sniffed back tears. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught sight of a mane of flaming red hair stalking off beyond the hedge.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Harry told Hermione, wrenching his gaze away from Ginny’s fading form with some difficulty. “It’s just a lot to process, that’s all.”

“Yes, of course,” she answered, sniffing one more time before visibly bucking up. “Anyway, I’ve done the best I can, and they’ll either forgive me or they won’t.”

Harry didn’t miss the quiver in her lip that told him that she isn’t quite as nonchalant as she seemed, but he knew better than to press the issue, and instead of asking more, he simply picked up a stack of plates from the end of the table and started placing one at each place setting.

Dinner was an awkward affair. Neville, Luna, Dean, and Seamus were invited to join them, as were Kingsley and Hagrid, who mercifully had left his half-brother at Hogwarts. Bill and Fleur had apparated over for dinner, and Charlie had decided to spend the summer at the Burrow before returning to Romania when school started again. Even George was sitting at the crowded table, although he looked rather sullen about it. The only person who seemed more upset than George was Ginny, who kept shooting Harry dirty looks and making snide comments at every opportunity. Each time, the rest of the family would cast apprehensive looks between the two of them, and Harry would feel his cheeks redden. When dinner was over, everyone but Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny stood up abruptly, offering to help clear dishes or prepare dessert, or claiming to need the toilet, or need to check something upstairs. Soon, it was just the four of them sitting alone in the garden, and Harry glanced up to see Ginny fold her arms across her chest and glare at him with a murderous look in her eyes. He slammed his fist on the table, beyond frustrated with her, and Hermione and Ron jumped in alarm, scurrying to their feet.

“We’ll just, uh,” Ron started, clearly unable to think of an excuse.

“Give you some space,” Hermione finished in an almost inaudible whisper, and she grabbed Ron’s hand and tugged him away.

Harry stood up once they were gone and took a step away from the table, fists clenched tight as he tried to breathe out his irritation. He knew, without looking, that Ginny had left her seat as well, and he felt words form on the tip of his tongue as his anger bubbled viciously.

“Look, Ginny, if you want me to leave, just say so, and I will. I know you probably hate me…”

“I don’t hate you, you great big prat,” she said, so quietly he almost didn’t hear it.

“You don’t… you don’t hate me?” Harry asked, feeling extremely confused, and oddly hopeful.

“No, of course not.” Ginny seemed to have remembered herself, crossing her arms again and turning away from him to compose herself once more.

“Then why have you been so determined to avoid me, and… and why do you keep staring at me like you want to tear my guts out?” He felt completely out of his element. _This,_ he thought, _is why I hate girls._

“Because, I’m bloody furious with you,” she said calmly, though it felt treacherous, like she might explode at any moment.

“Furious?” Harry repeated, still trying to catch up.

“YES, YOU STUPID BLOODY MORON!” She whirled on him, punctuating her words with blows to his arms, ribs, chest. “YES, I’M FURIOUS. YOU LEFT ME.” She hit him some more, until he was actually holding his arms up in defense. “YOU BLOODY LEFT ME AND I DIDN’T KNOW WHERE YOU WERE OR IF YOU WERE OKAY, OR ANYTHING. AND THEN YOU CAME BACK, AND WE FOUGHT WITH YOU, AND YOU BLOODY GIVE YOURSELF UP TO DIE. I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD, HARRY JAMES POTTER, I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!” She slumped to the ground now, spent, and he caught her, holding her close, though she didn’t stop yelling, and when she pushed him back, he let her. “DID YOU EVER THINK WHAT THAT MIGHT DO TO ME?”

“Ginny –“ he started, but she didn’t let him finish.

“No, you don’t get to talk,” she said sternly, and the look on her face – pure fire, fed by tears tracking down her cheeks – quelled him instantly. “Did you, for two seconds, think what would happen to me if I lost you?”

“No,” he answered honestly, and shrugs. “I thought what they would do to you if I didn’t leave, and I thought what would happen to me if I lost you.”

“And when you thought about losing me, what did you think?” She folded her arms, as if daring him to come up with a good answer.

“I thought that would be the end for me. I wouldn’t be able to bear it. If they… I’d lose it, I wouldn’t be able to keep going.” Harry felt incredibly vulnerable, having admitted this, but he didn’t want to lie to her then, not about something so important. She looked torn, as though part of her wanted to kiss him senseless and part of her wanted to knock him out.

“DID IT EVER PASS THROUGH YOUR THICK SKULL THAT I MIGHT FEEL THE SAME WAY?” she bellowed at last, and Harry thought privately that that time she might have achieved a volume rivaling Mrs. Black’s portrait in Grimmauld Place.

“No,” Harry replied, and he shocked himself a little bit with his answer, but he meant it. He had never once thought she might feel the same, though he could tell by the wrecked expression on her face that he had been so wrong.

Ginny turned on her heel and stormed back into the house, slamming the door so hard that the few chickens walking around nearby took off in alarm.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, a word of caution. This chapter contains references to and descriptions of alcoholism and self-harm. I don’t personally have experience as an alcoholic, but I do have experience with self-harm, and my description comes from there. That’s not to say it can’t be experienced differently, because I’m sure it can.
> 
> I want to briefly say here that to anyone battling with depression of any kind, there are so many people out there willing to support you, myself included. If you ever need someone to talk to, my inbox is open to all you. You are beautiful and strong. Keep fighting.
> 
> With that being said, enjoy this chapter. It’s heavy stuff, but the tradeoff is that the next chapter is lots and lots of fluff. So stay tuned for that.

He returns to his room in the Leaky Cauldron with his mind buzzing, Ginny's words playing on a loop through his head. _I thought you were dead. Did you ever think what that might do to me? That I might feel the same?_ He reached for the bottle of firewhiskey to dull the confusion in his brain, the guilt at thinking for months that she meant more to him than he did to her, for thinking that she wouldn't be devastated if he died. He had so misunderstood their relationship, and now he was quite afraid that in doing so, he had completely destroyed any chance of fixing it.

When what little had remained in the bottle was gone, Harry sent a note down to Tom for another, and another after that. He quickly remembered why this had been so appealing in the first place, this complete numbness that had settled in his mind, and more importantly, his heart.

It became his constant companion, the bottle of firewhiskey, sitting next to him on the nightstand or on the little table by the window when he got fed up with lying in bed. He didn't leave his room much, so he never had to think about taking it farther than across the small space he inhabited. Once or twice he ventured into the bar downstairs, but the amount of attention directed at him immediately reminded Harry why it was a bad idea. So instead, he stayed in his room, had his meals sent up, usually accompanied by a fresh bottle of firewhiskey – occasionally butterbeer if he fancied a change – and he read books, or the newspaper, or simply sat staring into space, thinking of nothing thanks to the alcohol.

* * *

Ginny stood in her bedroom, the door firmly locked so no one could enter (even after casting _alohamora_ ), and hugged her arms tight around herself, digging her nails into her waist and trying not to cry. The more her nails bit into the skin, the more she felt the turmoil of emotions in her mind clear, leaving her mind numb. She had been feeling so much anger, so much hatred, so much grief, and the nothingness she was beginning to feel was bliss in comparison. It wasn't just Fred, it was Colin and Lupin and Tonks, it was everything Bill had gone through after his attack, it was everything Harry had put her through the last year, however well meaning. All the things that Voldemort had _taken_ from her, it just seemed to good for him to simply die. She didn't feel like he had lost enough in return, and her mind screamed out for her to hurt _somebody_ the way she had been hurt.

Much to her surprise, Ginny looked down to see blood staining the tips of her fingernails where she had dug them into her skin, little crescent shaped cuts dotting her waist. At first, she was surprised at her own strength, but then she leaned her head back against the wall and marveled at how such tiny little cuts could make her feel so monumentally better.

It became a habit, a before bedtime ritual each night, for Ginny to take her wand and make a little red line appear in the skin on her waist. She'd pull her nightgown on after she had created enough cuts that she began to feel them sting, and then she would lie back in her bed and let the flow of endorphins carry her into a dreamless sleep. It was nice to be free of the nightmares that had haunted her since well before the battle. Nightmares that had only gotten worse since then.

Soon, the nighttime routine was not enough, and she began making it a part of her mornings as well, the last thing she did before she braved her family, and it helped, it made her numb to the feelings brought on by seeing her family. It made it easier to sit at the breakfast table, to be around George knowing Fred won't be there anymore. It was just easier in general, and a small part of her started craving it more and more.

* * *

"Harry James Potter, you open this door _right now_ ," a stern voice demanded, punctuating the words with loud knocks on the door.

Harry stood somewhat uneasily and walked over, pulling the door open roughly to find Hermione standing on the other side, looking rather aghast.

"You're a mess!" she exclaimed, looking him up and down with a scowl. "This is – this is – Harry how could you do this?"

"S-sorry?" he stammered, unprepared for his line of questioning. He had been prepared for disappointment, shock, even pity, but not for this.

"Your friends need you, your family needs you," she huffed, crossing her arms as she pushed her way inside his room. " _Teddy_ needs you! And where are you? Drunk in the Leaky Cauldron!"

"I don't have any family, Hermione, they're all dead," he said apathetically. "And Teddy has Andromeda, he's fine."

"Don't you give me that _bullshit_ , Harry," she scolded, and he was once more taken aback by her anger. "The Weasleys are your family, Hagrid, Ron, me…"

He flashed her a sheepish look. Of course Hermione would think that she and Ron were as good as his family.

"Harry, we need you," she pleaded, flashing him puppy dog eyes, but it wasn't going to work on him.

"What about what I need?" he nearly yelled back. He had given up everything for the wizarding world – his education, the girl he, well, had very strong feelings for, even his life – when was it his turn? Would his life ever be his, not other people needing him to do things for him?

"Harry, you need someone too," she said calmly. "I don't care if it's not me or Ron, but _someone_! Because this isn't healthy!"

"I don't care, Hermione!" he yelled again. "I don't give a damn about what's healthy, I just want to forget!"

"You want to forget?" she shrieked, her voice reaching a pitch he was fairly sure would send dogs into a frenzy. "You want to forget the time Fred and George bewitched snowballs to hit Quirrell in the head, not knowing Voldemort was underneath? You want to forget the time Fred told us that joke about the hag, and we laughed so hard you spewed pumpkin juice out your nose? Do you want to forget adoring little Colin and his camera? Forget that he captured your and Ginny's kiss in the Common Room? Do you want to forget Lupin teaching you how to conjure a patronus? And the time he told you that the memory he used was of your dad? And the day he came and told us Teddy was born, and asked you to be godfather? Do you want to forget all that?"

"No," Harry croaked quietly, longing for another swig of firewhiskey, although he didn't dare take so much as a sip in front of Hermione. "I just want to forget that they're gone."

"Well you can't," she said matter-of-factly, looking so very _Hermione_ with her hands on her hips. "If you forget that they're gone, you completely disrespect all the wonderful things they did in their lives, all the great moments you had with him, and everything they died for."

He pressed the heels of his hand into his eyes hard, trying to dull the pain that way. He knew she was right, knew this had to stop, but he didn't think he could do it on his own. As if she were reading his thoughts, Hermione laid a hand on his arm and spoke again.

"Talk to Ginny," she said, before turning to leave. "Maybe the two of you can get through this together."

* * *

Harry knocked on Ginny’s door lightly, holding his breath until a gap appeared and he could see her fiery red hair through it.

“Hey,” he started simply, not knowing what else he could possibly say. It was less awkward, knowing that she didn’t hate him, but not by much. He knew she didn’t want him to leave, but he also knew that he had hurt her, and he wasn’t sure how he could fix it.

“Hi,” she answered, turning away from him to look out her window. “What are you doing here?”

It wasn’t accusatory or unwelcome, just a question, but Harry wasn’t sure how best to answer. He decided the truth was a good start.

“I’m not dealing with all this well,” he said, and he heard her snort. Of course she already knew that. “I thought maybe we could, talk or, or, I dunno, something.”

“I don’t much feel like talking,” Ginny replied, turning to face him again and letting him see her red rimmed eyes.

“Look, I realize I’ve been a great big prat the past few weeks,” he sighed taking a step toward her and reaching out to take her hands. “It’s not news to me, believe me, I know I’m an idiot.” The words made Ginny laugh a little, and the sound in turn made his heart an ounce lighter. “But I am here for you, Ginny, I’m always here for you, if you want me.”

“I know,” she murmured, stepping closer to him too, and looking down at the floor. “I’m not exactly dealing with all this well either.”

“Could we maybe try to handle things together?” he asked hesitantly, and to his relief, she nodded, looking up at him with irresistible bright brown eyes.

Harry pulled her close and pressed his lips to hers, sinking in to her like it was his only hope. She was better than firewhiskey, better than anything he could imagine. He forgot everything but the feel of her against him, the softness of her lips. She whipped his shirt off in an instant, and Harry was too drunk on her taste to think about slowing down, to think about wrong time, or wrong reasons, or anything but wanting _more_. Still, he couldn’t seem to initiate more, and he waited for Ginny to grow impatient, until she pulled her own shirt off and pressed her skin against his. Harry’s hands started roaming, first over her back, her arms, her shoulders, across the sides of her waist, which made her shiver, over her stomach, until his hands brushed over smooth bumps along her skin – scars, not unlike the one on the back of his hand. At first, he thought nothing of it, wrote it off as a scar from the Battle, or from the year he was gone. There was so much of her he hadn’t gotten to explore, and so much that had changed since they were together. When his thumb met another scar, then another and another, and finally over a series of partially healed cuts, Harry’s brain woke up, urging him to see that something wasn’t right. He pushed her back a few inches, his eyes flickering down to her hips, taking in the lines that crossed her skin.

“Ginny, what -?” he started, and she turned her face away from him, looking out the window, but he placed a finger lightly under her chin and turned her face to his. “What happened?”

“The same thing that makes you taste like firewhiskey,” she sneered defensively, her eyes darkening with irritation. “We all have our methods of coping.”

“Did you do this to yourself?” he asked, tracing the scars with his thumb. She did not try to look away from him again, but stared at him defiantly, as though daring him to scold her. “Oh, Ginny,” he sighed, cupping her face in her hands and kissing her again, less urgently, trying to convey how much he cared.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure why, but it felt like she needed to say it.

“Don’t,” Harry answered, holding her close. “Don’t apologize, there’s nothing you have to apologize for. I’m the idiot, I’m the one who wasn’t here. But you’re – we’re both healing the wrong way.”

Ginny nodded into his shoulder, taking deep breaths as she listened to his heartbeat.

“We should go away,” he whispered. “We should take a trip somewhere, just us, someplace that we can start moving on.”

“But my family…” she started to argue, but Harry quieted her with a kiss.

“They’ll survive a week or two without you,” he said, brushing his nose against her forehead. “And being with them doesn’t seem to be helping you.”

“Okay,” Ginny answered, looking at him more seriously than he had ever seen her look before.

“I’ll tell your parents,” Harry offered, squeezing her arm tightly. “Leave tomorrow?”

“Let’s go tonight,” she said, and her expression was a mixture of deep sadness and the blazing determination he had seen so often.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” he answered, pressing a last kiss to her forehead before he left the room, heading downstairs to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and then back to the Leaky Cauldron to back some clothes.


End file.
